I am feeling drained at the moment. Sleeping badly; feeling physically creaky; eating all the wrong food again after five weeks on a healthy eating blitz: it is no wonder that my emotional reserves are in the human equivalent of the little red part of our vehicle’s fuel gauge. Every stop at the lights, traffic hold up, or emergency brake to avoid an idiot feels as if breakdown is imminent.

I have the most beautiful kids. To be honest they are young adults; but we are always our mother’s children aren’t we, however old we are? At the moment, and in their different ways, they are testing my emotional strength. Neither has an insurmountable problem in their life, they love me and both are happy. But whereas they live through their pain and recover quickly, I have absorbed their recent hurt and frustration and it affects me long after they have, as horrible modern parlance would have it, ‘moved on’.

As I get older it seems to become harder to ‘let it go’, to recover. This may be because as adulthood looms (for them, not me – although that is open to debate) I can sense that the least stressful years of their life are behind them and my role as protector is now a redundant one. They have to go it alone. I have to watch them fledge and just be there if they ever need tips on nestbuilding. I need to be ready.

I was in this mood at my reading group last night. We read a short story by J.G. Ballard – ‘Having a Wonderful Time’ – and then turned to two poems. One, ‘Morning Song’ by Sylvia Plath, was wonderful, but lost me for two verses and required the reader to work hard to appreciate complex images. The other was thus allotted just five minutes. We read it and left; but in it’s simplicity it stayed with me in a way that Sylvia did not.

For a Five-Year-Old – Fleur Adcock

A snail is climbing up the window-sillinto your room, after a night of rain.You call me in to see, and I explainthat it would be unkind to leave it there;it might crawl to the floor, we must take carethat no one squashes it. You understand,and carry it outside, with careful handto eat a daffodil.

I see, then that a kind of faith prevails;your gentleness is moulded still by wordsfrom me, who have trapped mice and shot wild birds,from me, who drowned your kittens, who betrayedyour closest relatives, and who purveyedthe harshest kind of truth to many another.But that is how things are. I am your mother,and we are kind to snails.

Fleur Adcock was born in New Zealand in 1934 but has lived in England for many years. Her poems are conversational and witty. However, familiar themes – family, childhood, identity – are approached with irony and such accurate psychological insight that the stab of recognition is almost a physical one. However harsh we know the world to be and however brutish we consider some of the things we have done in our lives, our instinct is to protect our children. We know though, that in that moment we have created a very fragile truth.

Here is another poem by Ms Adcock, on a similar theme:

For Andrew – Fleur Adcock

‘Will I die?’ you ask. And so I enter onThe dutiful exposition of that which youWould rather not know, and I rather not tell you.To soften my ‘Yes’ I offer compensations –Age and fulfillment (‘It’s so far away;You will have children and grandchildren by then’)And indifference (‘By then you will not care’).No need: you cannot believe me, convincedThat if you always eat plenty of vegetables,And are careful crossing the street, you will live for ever. And so we close the subject, with much unsaid –This, for instance: Though you and I may dieTomorrow or next year, and nothing remainOf our stock, of the unique, preciously-hoardedInimitable genes we carry in us,It is possible that for many generationsThere will exist, sprung from whatever seeds,Children straight-limbed, with clear inquiring voices,Bright-eyed as you. Or so I like to think:Sharing in this your childish optimism.

Evie: by her friend Lydia Cleere

Parenting is so tough. We often don’t give ourselves enough credit for the great job most of us actually do. That is what I am finding such an emotional challenge I think. Believing that the ‘childish optimism’ I helped to foster can survive what is becoming a very difficult world to live in. And hoping that they never challenge me on the fantasies I created for them.

To find out more about Fleur Adcock and her work see her page at Bloodaxe Books

7 Responses to ‘Parenting is such sweet sorrow…’

Its very hard to let go Suzie my youngest is 30 next week, I try desperately not to ‘interfere’ in my kids lives, hope I suceed, and are there when asked only.Have had awful times with them & come out the other end, its all still there in my head, but you have to live your life as well & enjoy your journey through it despite everything, and let them make their own choices, good or bad. Love ‘for Andrew’ poem, wonderful. Lynn

Thanks Lynn! I think it is that fine line between ‘interference’ and ‘guidance’ that worries us all. I love it when my daughter comes to me for a chat about life ‘stuff’. Much better than me imposing my views on her!

I am feeling a bit redundant in the parenting stakes at the moment. Emma will be 20 in 2 weeks and I cant believe that her teenage years are over. I’m finding it increasingly hard to ‘let go’ too and to let her move on in her independant life. I find myself wanting to know everything she does and everywhere she goes, which is only natural I suppose! Love the poems too Suzie x

Ah ha! the temptation to look at the Facebook page to see what they are up to! It is tough as I think relationships between mothers and daughters are complex in many ways. I have had to hold my hands up and admit to being a teeny bit envious of the happy, free life Evie leads and how gorgeous she looks. May as well admit it!

As the father of three growing young men, I simply want to state that your words and the words of the poet here really hit me hard. Sort of a velvet punch. Thanks for reminding me I don’t ride this train alone.